The Alpha's College Mate

Chapter 06

Clara’s POV

The grass still held the heat of the afternoon when Jasmine flopped onto her stomach beside me, phone already glowing in her hands. Her textbooks sat in a neat, untouched stack like props.

“So,” she said, eyes still on the screen, “how was the god’s lecture?”

I turned another page of the novel I’d been glued to since I left his classroom. Three hundred pages of dense theory and I couldn’t put the damn thing down. Half of me hoped he’d notice it tucked under my arm tomorrow. The other half knew I was being ridiculous.

“Fine,” I said.

She finally looked up and wiggled her brows. “Just fine? Girl, the man looks like he was carved out of something illegal. Don’t tell me you sat there taking notes like a model student.”

I hadn’t. Not really. I’d spent most of the hour watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his sleeves were rolled just high enough to show the veins in his forearms. And then I’d opened my mouth and asked about extra credit in a voice that left zero room for academic interpretation. He hadn’t shut it down. He’d almost smiled.

Maybe I was inventing things. Professors looked out for their students. That was all.

“Earth to Clara.” Jasmine kicked her feet in the air. “You’re daydreaming about Lucan Vance again.”

“I’m reading.”

“Uh-huh. I’m thinking of switching into his section. If you’re too chicken to make a move, somebody has to. Can’t let a face like that go to waste.”

My fingers clenched around the book hard enough that the corners dug into my palms. The flash of heat that tore through me wasn’t pure anger. It was the ugly, possessive kind. Jasmine was prettier, thinner, louder. If she walked into that lecture hall, he’d notice. He’d have to. And the attention he’d given me this morning, the brief, charged pause after my question would evaporate.

I wanted that attention. All of it. I’d never had anyone look at me the way he had for those few seconds.

“Yeah,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Go for it.”

I flipped the page hard enough to nearly tear it.

That was when I saw him.

Professor Vance rounded the far corner of the quad on his usual route, shirtless, skin shining under the sun. Sweat tracked the lines of muscle that weren’t gym-pumped but earned thick, functional, the kind that came from actual work. His pace was steady, almost lazy, like the heat didn’t touch him.

Jasmine made a noise that was half squeal, half prayer.

I slammed the book shut, scooped up my things, and stood before he could get any closer.

“I’ve got class,” I lied. “See you later.”

I didn’t wait for her answer. I cut across the grass toward the classics building, heart hammering, the space between my legs already aching. One last glance over my shoulder caught the flex of his back as he ran. Heat flooded low in my belly.

Inside the cool hallway I headed straight for the restroom, needing five private minutes to take the edge off. All day I’d been wound tight from the memory of those hazel eyes and the way he’d let my question hang in the air. I couldn’t sit through another conversation with Jasmine while my body still hummed.

Then I saw the door.

Slightly ajar. Nameplate clear as day: Professor C. Vance.

I stopped.

He was out running. He’d left it open.

I should have kept walking.

Instead I pushed the door wider, stepped inside, and shut it behind me.

The air smelled like unclean sweat, old books, something darker underneath. I dropped my bag and the novel hit the floor with a soft thud.

I didn’t understand what I was doing. One minute I was standing there breathing him in, the next I was at his desk, dragging my fingertips across the scattered papers, the edge of his laptop, the arm of the chair. I wanted him to walk in and know I’d been here. I wanted the scent of me left behind like a challenge.

He wouldn’t notice. Dozens of students came through every week. I’d just be another set of fingerprints.

That didn’t stop the images.

Shirtless and glistening on the quad. Dark eyes that never quite softened. Hands that looked like they could span my entire throat. If he ordered me to my knees right now I wouldn’t even pretend to hesitate.

I leaned back against the desk, shoved my hand into my underwear, and found myself already soaked. Two fingers pressed hard against my c**t and I bit down on a whimper. The risk of outstanding in his office, touching myself where he graded papers and answered emails only made the pressure build faster.

I couldn’t go back outside like this. I couldn’t face Jasmine while my body still pulsed with the memory of him.

I needed to come. Here. On his desk.

I dropped into his chair, kicked one sandal off, and propped my foot on the edge of the desk, spreading myself open. My fingers moved faster, circling, pressing, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room. Every nerve felt pulled tight. I closed my eyes and pictured him between my thighs through stubble scraping sensitive skin, those thick fingers pushing into me while his mouth worked.

“f**k,” I whispered, the word barely air.

My toes curled. My free hand clamped over my mouth as the first wave hit, sharp and rolling, forcing a muffled cry against my palm. I kept rubbing through it, chasing every last pulse until my legs shook and my breath came in broken gasps.

When it finally eased I stayed slumped in the chair, heart slamming, the evidence of what I’d done cooling on my fingers.

I should have been terrified. Expulsion. Going home in disgrace. Starting over.

None of it mattered.

Not after the way he’d looked at me this morning.

I cleaned up as best I could with tissues from his drawer, fixed my clothes, and slipped back into the hallway with my bag clutched tight. The novel went back under my arm.

Tonight, alone in my room, I already knew my hand would find its way between my legs again. And tomorrow, when I walked into his lecture, I’d still be carrying the secret of what I’d done in his chair and the desperate, stupid hope that some how he’d sense it.